


kept

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (he gets back out), Consentacles, Crack?, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Overstimulation, Post-Canon, Tentacle Sex, Vore, consensual vore, listen just go with me on this one, no jons were harmed in the making of this production, secretly-a-giant-sea-monster!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “I don't need to breathe,” Jon blurts out all at once, because it seems sensible to bring up the major factors behind why this is not nearly as dangerous as it immediately sounds. Sensible. Practical. Martin likes those sorts of things. “As you know. And you can spit me out after. And I heal quickly, so something like—ah, stomach acid, wouldn't be nearly as much of a concern for me as it would be for someone else. ”“I wouldn't know,” Martin says, and then very obviously reaches down and pinches himself. “Right. Okay. Not dreaming then, was wondering about that a bit. Anyway, I wouldn't know, because no one else has ever asked me toeat them.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 193





	kept

**Author's Note:**

> "So," I asked myself last night, after having poked through the kink meme for a while and not found anything that quite took my fancy, "what have I never written before?" And my brain helpfully supplied "Martin is secretly a giant sea monster and Jon wants to be lovingly swallowed whole by him." 
> 
> And then I... wrote it??? for some reason??? Look, I am confused as any of you, this just sort of happened. Have some inexplicably fluffy consensual vore. With tentacles. You're very welcome.
> 
> (general note: Jon is trans here, words used are cock/cunt)

“I could eat you up,” Martin says, half-mouthing at the side of Jon's neck with his grin too wide to do it properly, his cheeks flushed, and Jon squirms, trying to wiggle away from the tickling fingers sneaking up under his shirt. 

“Yes,” he says, as deadpan as he can between giggles, “yes, you could.” 

Martin's eyes go wide, and Jon lets himself think about it, really _think_ about it, for just a second, and arousal hits him so hard his vision goes blurry, a molten weight dropped into the pit of his stomach. And then the moment passes, and Martin's fingers go back to torturing his side with tickles, and Jon's thoughts fade away into helpless giggles and batting hands, but. 

It sticks in his mind. He looks at Martin, and somewhere underneath the fondness, is that rush of arousal, so strong it _hurts_ , so strong it nearly makes him sick and he cannot stop thinking about it. 

The thing is—he _could_.

*

He's known for a long time. Back before everything, before the apocalypse and now the world after it, before he was “The Archivist” as a true name rather than just a title, when he was spending his nights crouching in his office, muttering into a tape recorder and constantly looking over his shoulder for the next person coming to try to murder him, he'd gone through Martin's things and found a half-crumpled letter in his desk, ostensibly to his mother, but with half the lines scratched out and the paper torn, and the words “if they knew what I _was_ ” barely visible through the mess. “What I was.” “What I'm hiding from them.” It ate away at him for weeks until he finally snapped and confronted Martin, wound so tight every word was an effort to force out. 

“What are you _hiding_ ,” he'd roared, banging his desk, and Martin had stared at the ground, his eyes wide with fear and his face flushed, and there had been a long, long moment where they were frozen in place, Jon's eyes on Martin and Martin's on the floor. 

“You'll never believe me if I tell you,” Martin said quietly, wringing his hands together. “It's _mad_. _I_ wouldn't believe me if it was someone else.” 

“Then try,” Jon said, short and sharp, and Martin gave a deep, weary sigh.

“I'm... Jon, I can't do this,” he began, and Jon steeled his gaze and said, in a voice so fervent it made his whole mouth buzz with the static of it, “ _Tell me_.” 

“Fine! _Fine_. I'm secretly a giant sea monster. Alright?”

There was a mental list Jon had assembled from the evidence around him, little bits and pieces of Martin he cataloged and hoarded like a tiny, greedy dragon, and it contained several things that Martin could have been hiding. This was, to put it mildly, not one of them.

“... What?” Jon asked, completely caught off guard, his anger dissipating into confusion. “You're... what?” 

“Look, I _told_ you you wouldn't believe me. And I don't have any good proof for you. Not, uh, not here, anyway. I have to be in a... decently big body of water? Like a proper one. I guess I sort of turn partway in the bath, so I only take showers, but I don't _fit_ in the tub, either, and the last time I did it I might have... broken the tub a little? Oh, this is mad, you're going to think I've lost it.”

“... A bit, yes,” Jon said, sitting back down all at once, his veins still humming with nervous energy. “If you're trying to hide something, this is...” Well, it's thrown him off—maybe the idea was to throw him off? “I would recommend you come up with a better explanation. Did Tim put you up to this?” 

Martin sighed, weary, and pulled up a chair to the other side of Jon's desk and collapsed into it in a huff. “I know how it sounds, alright? Oh, Martin's lost it this time, he's saying he's a _sea monster_ , but honestly, why on earth would I lie about this? Give me a good reason to lie about this.”

Jon was silent for a long moment. “I... I am going to need _proof_ , you know,” he said, looking Martin carefully up and down. Martin didn't look like he'd lost it, and this was too far for a prank, even from Tim, who at the best of times delighted in throwing Jon off his game. He just looked _tired_ , so bone-deep weary he could melt into the chair he was wedged into, and the only other time Jon had seen him look like this was, well. Was after Prentiss had trapped him in his apartment for two weeks. 

“I don't want to cause a panic,” Martin said, staring at his hands, clasped in his lap. “And I don't do well in fresh water. So I can't just, um, just go jump into the Thames, you know? It's gross, anyway, I've seen the kinds of stuff floating in there. If we... if we went to the ocean, I could show you.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes, still staring at Martin. Of ways to kill someone, “come to the seaside with me on the pretense of me showing you that I'm a sea monster so I can off you on the way” seemed... well, even in the haze of paranoia that had become his life, it was not high on the list of likely plans. Still, though, it was Martin. Nothing ever seemed to work properly where Martin was concerned, even if he had been a bit better lately. Somewhere approaching competent. 

“Anything else to confess?” Jon asked, and his words buzzed faintly on his tongue. He frowned, stopped, ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, and the feeling was gone. 

“... I also lied on my CV,” Martin said, and his face went redder than it already was. “I don't have a Master's in parapsychology. I don't even have a degree. But it seemed, um, a bit more minor? A bit less of a thing to bring up when “I'm also a sea monster” is just kind of sitting there.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, blinking. That... made sense, actually, and explained a great deal about Martin's overall performance, which was distressing, because the more Martin explained _that_ , the more he had to concede that Martin would never have confessed that under normal circumstances, which meant that the _other_ thing that Martin had just confessed to... might actually be true. 

“Sea monster,” Jon said finally, when Martin had finished fumbling through the explanation of how he'd gotten a job at the Institute despite having no formal qualifications. 

“Sea monster,” Martin said wearily, and ran a hand through his hair. “I've always been like this. Mum says that the first time she put me in the bath, she ran out of the room and screamed for ten minutes before she could come back in and face me. I don't remember it. I was just a baby, you know? I think it might have come from my dad's side of the family, but I didn't really ever know my dad, and so I can't be sure. But it feels like something that's more of, oooh, spooky family curse, rather than just sometimes you have a baby and they're a giant sea monster. She told me he was a sailor. I don't know if she—knew about him one way or the other. She never said.” 

“Right,” Jon said, blowing out a breath and all at once, the tension drained out of him, and he found himself on the verge of laughter. “... Right. Sea monster.” 

“Are you... okay?” Martin asked tentatively, finally looking up at him, and his eyes were precisely the color of the sea on a sunny day. Jon had never noticed before. 

“Honestly, Martin, I'm really rather relieved,” Jon said, hardly believing the words as they left his mouth. _I thought you were planning my murder and instead you're worried that your coworkers are going to find out that you're a sea monster._ “I'm... willing to go along with you at some point, to see this, because even though I don't think you're lying necessarily this is not something I can just accept without proof. Do any of the others know?”

“They'd think I was mad,” Martin said, blinking at him. “You can't just casually drop that into conversation, oh, I'm a Leo, and also sometimes I turn into a giant thing with tentacles that's like, twenty feet wide.”

“Twenty feet.”

“I've never measured, so it could be more than that, but I'm... big, yeah. Always been kind of a bigger guy, right?” Martin laughed a little at himself, although there wasn't much humor to it. 

“... Right,” Jon said, looking him up and down. “Right.” 

*

It was months later when he saw it for the first time; the world had gone to hell and so he just hadn't had _time_ for a bit, too busy running for his life and then running all over the globe trying to hunt down the Unknowing, but one afternoon, partway into the planning, when it felt like he might just for a second have a moment to breathe, he and Martin went down to the seaside. They arrived just as the sun was setting and Martin picked his way across rocky beaches until they were in a cove isolated from the rest, only them and the stones and the setting sun and the endless, dark stretch of ocean, and then Martin sighed and started stripping out of his clothes.

“I,” Jon started, and then found himself both entirely unable to finish the thought, and he could _feel_ his face flushing. He looked away as quickly as he could. 

“If I transform and I've still got clothes, I've got nothing to wear back,” Martin said, and took the towel he had brought with him to wrap around his waist. “Just... please don't scream, okay?” 

“I'll try,” Jon said. He'd seen much more frightening things than _Martin_ recently, surely. How strange could it be?

Martin stepped forward, picking his way carefully across the rocks, until his feet were being gently lapped by the waves, and then Jon could see him take a deep, steadying breath, roll his shoulders, and dive into the water. He did not emerge. 

What _did_ emerge was something else entirely. A strange, dark shape under the water, so large it took Jon's breath away, and then it emerged, and he stood stock still on the rocky beach, transfixed. It was _enormous._ Nearly as dark as the ocean water, with smooth, shiny skin, long, waving tentacles that moved sinuously through the water, and two large black eyes, staring down at him unblinking. When it opened its mouth—no, when Martin opened his mouth, there were two rows of sharp teeth and a long, long tongue that tapered to a point, and his mouth was so wide that he could have reached down and devoured Jon in one gulp. He stayed there for a moment, lazily moving through the water and sending small rippling waves to the beach, and then ducked back down under the water.

It took ten minutes for him to emerge fully, and when he did, drawing closer to the beach with careful strokes forward, his form slowly melted away, shrinking down all at once in so many directions it made Jon dizzy to look at, and then it was just Martin, naked as the day he was born, dripping wet, his mouth splitting in a wide grin. There was seaweed wrapped around one of his ankles.

“... I believe you,” Jon said, because he couldn't think of a single other thing to say. 

“Well I hope so, at this point,” Martin said, reaching for his discarded towel, still drifting back and forth in the shallows. “Eugh. It's all wet now. Did you bring a spare?”

And that was that. Jon was being hunted by half a dozen eldritch beings that very much wanted to kill and skin him, the entire world might be unmade in a month or two, and Martin was, incontrovertibly, a giant sea monster.

He tried to suppress his nervous laughter and failed, until he was curled up in a heap giggling to himself, his eyes beading with tears. 

*

Jon is trying to stop thinking about it. It's not like Martin being a giant sea monster actually comes up all that often; he takes showers instead of baths, and occasionally goes to the seaside when he needs a good stretch, but otherwise he looks like a perfectly normal human. He makes Jon tea in the mornings and works on his writing and cuddles up with their cat, and Jon, somehow, is just... a teacher now, and tries to pretend half the world doesn't have barely-remembered trauma lurking in the back of their minds because of him. 

His nightmares come and go; these past couple of days, though, he has been dreaming of Martin instead. Dreaming about wading out into the ocean with him and letting those long, thick tentacles encircle him, wrapping him up tight and safe and entirely unable to move, and then—and then. 

Even in his own head, the thought is so extreme that it makes his whole body go hot and sick all at once, and he is fervently glad that even though the Eye was fond of Martin, it never gave him any ability to read minds. Because in those dreams, after Martin has pressed him close and tucked his tentacles into every part of Jon he can reach and Jon is limp and pliant, entirely unable to do anything but drift in the water, he opens his mouth. 

He opens his mouth and carefully, lovingly, tucks the wrapped up little ball of Jon into it, and then slowly swallows him, his tongue working against Jon's naked body, his throat squeezing him rhythmically as he goes down, and then he is there, tucked secret and safe, so fully inside Martin he could stay there forever. He generally wakes at that point, his mind unsure what to do with the scenario beyond it, but he wakes up damp between his thighs and all of his limbs loose, and it just _keeps happening_ , until it starts to happen during the day, too, just little idle thoughts as Martin pulls him into a hug, or curls around him at night, and every time, it is so instantly, immediately arousing it makes his stomach _hurt_. He can't talk about it. He has no idea how he would even begin to bring it up. 

For a moment, he tries to imagine telling Martin, “I want you to swallow me,” and meaning it in an entirely different way than Martin will immediately think, and the kind of reaction Martin would have. Martin has always been so relieved when Jon doesn't treat him like he's strange for his secret, and has always been so quietly, horribly ashamed of it; he's admitted that much. That when his mother called him a monster, it was because she knew what he was. That she was _right_. And that would be if Martin got past the idea that Jon wanted Martin to hurt him, which he knows in his bones Martin would never do. There's no easy way to say “I think it would be safe, I don't need to breathe, and I heal quickly,” and have that be something that Martin just—accepts. 

*

“Anything on your mind?” Martin asks, passing by Jon sitting at the kitchen table, poring over stacks of half-graded papers, and drops a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “You keep--” He hesitates, taking a sip of his tea. “You've had this look on your face for _days_ now when you look at me, and I don't want to be, you know, nosy, but I'm trying not to be worried?”

Jon, who is very much only half paying attention to his papers because he was thinking about what the inside of Martin's mouth—his _other_ mouth—would feel like, flushes and freezes in place. “Nothing,” he says, and he knows full well that he sounds like a terrible liar. “Well. It's nothing bad.” 

“Alright,” Martin says after a pause, and ruffles his hair a bit. “If it's something weird, you can tell me, though, you know that.” 

Not this, Jon does not say, biting it back before the words crawl out of his throat. There are weird things Jon could tell him, _has_ told him, but this is still a bridge too far. 

*

He awakes in the middle of the night to Martin, propped up on one elbow, his pale gray eyes staring down at Jon, catching just enough moonlight that they nearly seem to glow. Martin's face is flushed, and his sheets are a mess at his waist, and his other hand has a death grip on the sheets he hasn't seemed to notice. Jon closes his eyes again for a brief moment, and realizes that his heart is pounding. He shifts, and he can feel the slickness between his thighs. 

“You were, um,” Martin says, and goes redder still. “... making noises?” he tries finally. “You woke me up with them and I thought you were just having a nightmare at first, and I was going to wake _you_ up, because you were getting a little loud and I thought it might be a bad one, but, um.” 

“... ah,” Jon says, his own face heating up. He stares down at himself, the half-remembered snippets of the dream he keeps having rushing back. “I, ah, well.” 

“You don't have to tell me,” Martin says, tucking the covers in more tightly around himself and settling back down onto the bed fully. “If you don't want to.” But he's got that tone he takes sometimes when he's trying very, very hard not to be nosy, but desperately wants to be nosy and would love nothing more than to find out what the secret is. The Eye wasn't fond of him for no reason, Jon thinks ruefully. 

The world around them is silent and still, and Martin is warm by his side, and it feels so safe here. Their little bubble of calm, protected from the outside world, where nothing will find them and hurt them anymore, and he reaches out and takes Martin's hand in his own and squeezes it. “I love you,” he says, and Martin beams and squeezes his hand back. 

“I love you too,” Martin says, and then bites his lip, and Jon can practically hear him starting to ask, _but really, tell me?_ and so he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This is going to go badly; he cannot imagine a world in which it does not go badly. 

“I was having a dream,” he begins, and Martin makes a casual, approving sort of hmming noise, but the sort that is absolutely trying to egg him on. “You were... um. You were.” 

“Oh, I was there?” He can't see Martin's eyes, not with his own squeezed so resolutely shut, but he can practically hear the glint in them. “What were you dreaming about?”

He might as well go for it. He can't stop _thinking_ about it, and it feels like it's going to eat him alive to have this trapped under his skin for so long. It's been consuming his thoughts for days now. 

“We were... in the ocean,” he begins, and Martin takes a sharp breath, clearly putting two and two together with the noises Jon was making and what _we were in the ocean_ means for him specifically. “You, ah.” 

“I was... me in the ocean,” Martin says, very slowly and deliberately, and is silent for a long moment. “And you were making those noises.” 

“... yes?” Jon tries, and cracks one eye open. Martin is staring at him, his own face starting to heat, and there is something like wonder in them. 

“Jonathan Blackwood-Sims, were you having a dream about my _tentacles_ ,” Martin blurts, sounding halfway between impressed and flabbergasted. 

“That was, um, that was part of it?” Jon offers weakly, and Martin bites his lip, a smile starting to widen on his face. “There was... another bit to that, though. I might have been. Well. You swallowed me.” 

Martin goes very still for a moment. “I swallowed you.” 

“Yes.”

“Like—like I _ate_ you.” 

“More just... swallowed. There was,” he can _feel_ how flaming-red his face must be, and even thinking about it in these vague terms again is making his pulse kick up, that now-familiar painful twist of arousal thrumming through him. “There was rather a lot of swallowing involved. Not many, ah, teeth.” 

Martin blinks, looks down at Jon, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and no noise comes out. 

“You weren't _hurting_ me,” Jon hastens to clarify, and he has to close his eyes again, because he cannot for the life of him read the look on Martin's face. 

“... and you were making those noises,” Martin says, after a very, very long pause. 

“... I might have been?” Jon offers. 

“I.” Martin audibly flounders for a moment. “I don't know that I could _do_ that without hurting you, but are you saying you were having a _sexy dream_ about me _literally swallowing you whole_.” 

Jon doesn't answer, but the ever-increasing flush on his face, so hot it feels like if Martin touched him his hand would scorch to match Jon's, is probably answer enough, and after a pause, his mouth entirely unable to form words, Martin lets out a long, low whistle. 

“ _Martin_.” 

“Oh come _on_ ,” Martin says, and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “I know that's... um. A thing for some people? I've been on some weird corners of the internet. For a while I used to look stuff up where the, uh. Things that featured—things like me. I just didn't expect it from you. Wow.” 

“Good wow?” Jon asks, opening one eye a crack to get a good look at him. Martin looks almost _impressed_ , and his face is nearly as red as Jon's, and there is a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips like part of him wants to laugh in sheer delighted shock. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, and then finally he does let himself laugh, just a bit, a little startled bark of it. 

“You said the other day that you wanted to eat me up,” Jon begins, because that's it, the cat is out of the bag, he can tell Martin this now, “and I have been thinking about it _every time I look at you_ ever since.” 

There's a glint to Martin's eyes, and he looks _very_ pleased with himself, and then he stops, looks down at Jon, visibly giving him a once-over. “Wait.” 

“... Yes?” Jon asks, fidgeting a bit at the look Martin is giving him now, which has become significantly harder to read. 

“Do you want to actually do that?”

“It's possible?” Jon says, and his voice comes out very faint. 

Martin blinks down at him for a long, long moment. “I. You.” 

“I don't need to breathe,” Jon blurts out all at once, because it seems sensible to bring up the major factors behind why this is not nearly as dangerous as it immediately sounds. Sensible. Practical. Martin likes those sorts of things. “As you know. And you can spit me out after. And I heal quickly, so something like—ah, stomach acid, wouldn't be nearly as much of a concern for me as it would be for someone else. ”

“I wouldn't know,” Martin says, and then very obviously reaches down and pinches himself. “Right. Okay. Not dreaming then, was wondering about that a bit. Anyway, I wouldn't know, because no one else has ever asked me to _eat them_.” 

“But?” Jon prompts, still barely able to believe he's actually admitted this to Martin's face. It's an intensely awkward thing, but Martin has not gotten off the bed and run screaming out into the night, or worse, said _no_ yet, and so he's trying to hope his good fortune holds. 

“... if this _hurts you_ , in any way, we are never doing it again,” Martin says, all in a rush, and tucks in closer to Jon. “Tell me what you were dreaming about? Properly? I want to know what... what you want. I don't know how to make this properly safe, but... we can figure it out.” 

“Alright,” Jon breathes, and tucks in close, pressing his forehead to Martin's, and then the words start to spill out of him as surely as in any statement. 

*

They make a day of it. “Taking a day off to go to the seaside with my husband” sounds like such a nice, normal thing for someone to say when asking for the day off work, and Jon tries not to think about the rest, about how they are going to take a day off to go to the seaside—and have a picnic, Martin has insisted on that point—and Jon will read a book and Martin will get some writing done and then when the sun goes down and no one else is on the beach anymore, Martin will...

Martin will go into the water, and let the change overtake him, and then fill Jon up with his tentacles until he's loose and pliant and easy for anything Martin wants to give him, and then Martin will, well. Eat him. 

“You're still sure?” Martin asks as they pack up the picnic basket, tucking the bottle of wine alongside a baguette and three different kinds of cheese and a neat little plastic container full of washed strawberries. “About our... beach holiday.”

“Yes,” Jon confirms, and tries to pretend he is still reading his book instead of just staring at Martin, watching his arms move as he carefully organizes the basket to be as stable as possible for the trip and trying not to think about those arms slowly lengthening, darkening, until there is only the _other_ Martin and all the possibilities that brings. “Of course I'm sure, it was my idea.”

“I'm not the one at risk here,” Martin says mildly, taking the blanket off the back of the couch and folding it into a neat square to tuck under his arm and take with them. “And sometimes you have plans that are a bit, well--” 

“Yes, yes,” Jon grumbles, pretending to focus very hard on his book. Martin has lost the right to rib him _too_ hard on that point, although he has a long and storied history of plans he hasn't quite thought through all the way, because successfully saving the entire world does count for rather a lot. Still, he's not wrong on the whole. “I really will be fine.” 

They've waited for a day like this; it's warm, but not unbearably hot, and the sky is perfectly clear. There is a beach they picked out after much deliberation, one with soft sand and not just a sea of jagged, sharp rocks, and it never gets quite hot enough for the water to be _pleasant_ , but Jon wades in a bit, testing it, and finds that in the heat of this summer's day, it's not so bad. It will be colder at night, of course. Martin lifts his hat slightly from where it's half-covering his face to raise a questioning eyebrow at Jon, and Jon nods at him before wading back to the shore to come back and start setting up their picnic, all the sand sticking to his damp legs. He wrinkles his nose at them. 

“It's just sand,” Martin says with a yawn, stretching out on the towel he's brought, his pale skin already starting to turn red in the places where they'd forgotten to rub in the sunscreen properly, and Jon lays out the blanket and tries not to look at him, because he's going to get distracted by it again. His hands shake slightly as he sets out the food, and it is going to be a long, long afternoon while they wait for the sun to set and the rest of the beach to clear out, because all he can think of is _later_. 

“So,” Martin says after a moment, pouring the wine into both glasses and trying to set them carefully into the sand so they won't tip. He draws the word out, and Jon flushes, but doesn't say anything further. It's only fair, he supposes, that Martin should get to tease him a bit about this, but instead of any of that, Martin takes a sip of his wine and asks, in a voice so quiet Jon can barely hear it over the chatter of the rest of the crowd at the beach, “are you nervous?”

“A bit,” Jon admits, taking a sip of his own wine. He still wants to, of course he does, and he hastens to reassure Martin as much, but it's still going to be... well. It's one thing to imagine it and another thing to feel it. 

“I keep thinking about it too, now,” Martin says, soft and shy, glancing up at him from the corner of his eye. “Just—tucking you away all nice and safe inside me.” He takes a much bigger drink of his wine immediately after the words leave his mouth, like he can't quite believe he's had the nerve to say it, and heat goes through Jon like a shock, leaving him breathless for a second. He presses his thighs together and squeezes them, his eyes closing for a moment. 

“Yeah, I know,” Martin says, his voice hoarse. “Exactly.” 

Jon looks up at the sun and wishes fervently for it to go down and leave them be, because if he has to feel like this for the next six hours he might just burn up entirely. He takes a bite of cheese instead and tries to focus on the flavor of it, and the book he'll be reading later, and the way the sand feels against his still-damp skin, anything but focusing on the reality of what's going to happen later. Anything to distract him. 

“I'll be quiet,” Martin says, a bit of a wicked tilt to his smile, and breaks off a hunk of bread. 

It's a very, very long six hours.

*

The sun dips down below the horizon slowly, and around them, the beach is starting to properly empty out, the detritus of a day's celebration from dozens of people scattered around them, half-formed sandcastles and holes dug into the sand and and occasional bottles and bits of wrappers, and they pack up the picnic blanket properly and tuck it away in the car they rented to make the trip, trying not to look too much at each other. There's still a bit more time to wait. The setting sun casts the beach in crimson and the light reflecting off the water goes a hundred different waving colors, and Jon stands at the edge, letting the sea lap at his toes, waiting for the night to rise. It's still clear and the moon is nearly full, and as they lose the light entirely, Martin comes up behind Jon to press himself along his back, hands clasped around his waist from behind but very carefully not quite in the water yet, and they wait. 

Finally, they're alone, and Jon takes a deep breath, his heart thundering. There's a more secluded bit of beach further down, one not so obvious from the road, and he thinks, in the moments he has let himself plan this properly at all, that he will probably be underwater for most of it, but even so—there's no reason to start a panic. “Shall we?” he asks, and Martin ducks his head and grins and takes the hand he is offered as Jon leads him down the beach to a spot where they can be properly alone. Everything up to this point has been... sweet, and a bit romantic, and if Martin wants to leave it here Jon won't fault him, but when they finally arrive at their destination and Martin meets his eyes, there's a hunger in them that makes his knees wobble. No backing out now, then.

“You're still sure?” Martin asks, casting a look around them. Night has properly fallen, and the beach is empty, and Jon takes a deep breath and nods once. It's time. “I'll be careful,” he says, leaning in to kiss Jon, soft and sweet. “I promise.”

“I know,” Jon says, and then Martin turns away and begins to walk towards the water, scuffing his feet in the sand as he goes to leave trails behind. He wades in, arms outstretched, and like this, Jon can see the change happening gradually. How he dips in the water just slightly as his legs lengthen and turn, and then the middle of him, and then he ducks his head under the water and it is only the creature-that-is-Martin left in all of its vast, writhing bulk. He swirls in the water once, twice, dipping under and then back again with a great splash, and then reaches out a tentacle towards Jon, beckoning him forward. 

Jon takes another quick look around the beach and then tugs his swim trunks down and begins to walk. The water is colder like this, he thinks wildly as his feet begin to submerge, and then his ankles, his knees, his thighs. It makes him shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin, but underneath it all is the certainty that this is _really happening_ , and he closes his eyes and gives himself over to the sea. To _Martin_ , just out of reach, moving slow and sinuous through the water like he has always belonged here. He lets himself drift forward for a moment on his back, staring up at the moon high above him, and then from every direction he is encircled. Tentacles wind around his hips, his thighs, one thick one wrapping around his chest to hold him steady, and he tries to struggle and finds that he cannot move an inch; Martin has him and will not let him go. Keeping him safe. Surrounded. Trapped. 

He whimpers and reaches out for one of the tentacles, trying to draw it into his mouth to muffle the cries that threaten to tumble out of his throat as the tentacles slowly move across his skin, and one slides in, slow and steady and so big that it makes the sides of his mouth ache, slowly pushing deeper in a slick, relentless movement. Another tentacle brushes against the one encircling his chest and then begins to curl around one of his nipples, and he tries to push his hips up into it, into the sharp little shock of pleasure-pain that goes through him, but the tentacles at his hips hold steady. _Please_ , he wants to say, wants to beg, but the tentacle slowly pushing deep into his mouth presses in deeper still, thick and relentless, and the only thing that escapes him is a muffled cry. 

The tentacles at his hips wind tighter, and then one nudges forward to press against his cock, and he is powerless to do anything but let it as it presses down hard, giving him just enough pressure to properly move against if he could move at all, and then another is at his hips, and then another, and from the blink of one eye to the next he can feel one of them at his cunt, teasing at penetration with careful brushes of the tip at his entrance, back and forth, until he feels half-mad with it, his arms spasming as the one pressing down on his cock tightens around him. “Please,” he tries again, and even less sound makes it out this time, but Martin seems to understand, and the tentacle enters him slow and steady, thicker than anything he has ever taken, and nearly painful with the stretch, and he moans and lets his hands curl into fists, trying to ground himself even a little in this. Another teases at his arse, stroking over his hole, another two wind properly around his thighs and give him slow, steady friction against the inside of them as Martin draws closer still. It's so much, he thinks wildly, even as the third tentacle begins to push inside him properly, and then his arms are encircled too and he is held there for a long, still moment, completely bound, every part of him filled. His heart is beating wild and rabbit-fast and every tiny movement makes heat spark through him so strong that he could melt with it, and then Martin begins to _move_. 

Even if he wanted to fight it, he couldn't. The tentacles all push into him at once, and they sink _deep_ , and he cries out, trying to suck in air through his nose by reflex even though he has no need to breathe, and Martin makes a low rumbling sound and fucks him faster, harder, every part of him taken, invaded, every movement electric, so good he could cry with it, and maybe he is; Martin dips him further into the water and then under it entirely, the whole bulk of him wrapping around Jon as he fucks him, and Jon moans, trying to push back but still held in place by the tendrils that are far stronger than he is. 

_Please_ , he thinks wildly, _it's so much_ , and the tentacle pressing down against his cock tightens again and all at once the heat in him spirals outwards and he comes, choking on the tentacle that in slow pushes has worked its way nearly all the way down his throat. He grasps at the ones keeping his arms still, hips trying to push up against his bonds, his whole body shuddering with it, and Martin just keeps going, not slowing for a moment, and Jon had asked for this, before, but it's so much. He can barely think, his eyes leaking with tears lost in the salt of the water, and even through the near-pain of the overstimulation as Martin's tentacles wind their way deeper inside him, curling in him, all he can think of is _more_. The one in his arse is joined by a second, smaller tentacle, nudging its way in alongside, and he closes his eyes and gives himself to it, and he comes a second time, a third, nearly blacking out as he spasms with it. After a fourth he goes _limp_ , fully, all of the fight leaving him, and the tentacles inside him still. 

They slide out slowly, letting him feel every inch of their bulk as they withdraw, and he wants to beg Martin to put them back inside, but the ones holding his chest and his hips steady tighten and are joined by others, and all at once, encircled and still shivering, his nerves sparking at every movement, Jon knows that it's time.

Martin draws him in closer to his mouth and rubs his body against the closed line of it like a kiss, and then he opens his mouth wide. Jon's already rabbiting heart begins to beat faster, and that half-sick force of desperate, overwhelming arousal overtakes him further and he grasps on tightly to the tentacles that slide him in towards Martin's mouth. It's big enough that he could nearly stand inside of it, and as the tentacles slide him closer, past the dagger-sharp teeth, they let him go just enough that his feet drag along the slick surface of Martin's tongue, and his eyes squeeze shut. The water is warmer inside Martin's mouth, and he can see Martin's throat at the end of it, the way it slopes downwards into darkness, the slow pulse of muscle all around him, and all he can do is relax himself and let himself be pushed deeper in. The tentacles all squeeze him tighter at once, like a hug, and then he can feel his feet be overtaken by the spasming muscle of Martin's throat.

 _Oh,_ he wants to say, and his eyes go very wide as his body is pressed in further, until there is pressure all around him all the way up to his knees. The tentacles all begin to unwind from him, leaving him there, his hands grasping at the slick back of Martin's tongue and finding no purchase, and the pressure that is beginning to draw him downwards. Martin's throat works carefully, and Jon tries not to struggle, tries not to choke him as he is pulled down it, the smooth, repetitive motions of swallowing pressing his body in on all sides, slick and wet and so strangely good he could cry with it, and as he is fully enveloped into the tight, squeezing darkness, the pressure pushes him over the edge all at once and he cries out, the sound lost entirely, his whole body jerking with it but entirely unable to escape. 

It is so dark inside Martin, and so warm, and there is room enough for him to curl up inside, but only just, and he presses his hands to the front wall of Martin's stomach, wondering in a wild, dazed way if Martin can feel him from the outside. If Martin likes him like this, likes him kept secret and safe, as inside him as it is possible to be. His _possession_. It hurts, in a distant, faint sort of way, the awareness distant in his mind, but beyond that it just feels _good_ to be like this; the inside of Martin is burning hot, and he can feel everything around him move softly as Martin's heart beats. When he presses his bare hands to the thin skin of Martin's insides, he can feel that too, so close to him, and he knows he can't stay, but some fierce part of him wants to. 

Martin doesn't let him linger for long; Martin made him promise he wouldn't, and when the walls around him twitch faintly and he feels the curl of a tentacle worked down Martin's throat, searching for him, he lets it envelop him and drag him steadily back out past the spasming muscle that wants to keep him inside. 

For a long moment once he is freed, Martin just curls around him, all of his tentacles wrapped protectively against Jon, Jon's body pressed to the center of him, and then Martin begins to move them steadily towards the shore, tentacles sliding through the water smooth and sinuous. He turns back gradually as he leaves the water, until he is holding Jon's limp, naked body against his human chest, and Jon is _exhausted_ , bone-deep tired and satisfied in a way he's not sure he has ever been, and all he can do is look up at Martin and smile.

Their towels are there waiting for them, and Martin lowers Jon down onto them and curls around him, keeping him warm as the chill of the night air begins to creep in and their skin begins to dry. Jon rests his hand over Martin's chest. He can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, so much more faint on the outside. 

“I wanted to keep you,” Martin admits quietly, running his thumb along the curve of Jon's cheekbone. “I know I couldn't, but.” 

Jon meets his eyes, and he is not sure he has ever felt love quite so fiercely as he does in this moment. “I wanted to be kept,” he says, and he slides a hand into Martin's still damp hair and kisses him, keeping him as close as he can in this form.


End file.
